Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

I was in no mood for mind-fucking, leaned close, snarled,

“I don’t want any fucking favors.”

He made a gesture of resignation by holding up both palms, said,

“Slow down, my friend. Don’t bite the messenger.”

I stood up, said,

“I’m not your friend and don’t let me see you on my case again.”

He laughed, said,

“The Greek gift.”

I asked,

“What?”

“It refers to a chess sacrifice that is frequently deadly, i.e., the Wooden Horse at Troy. What they thought was a gift was a fatal attack.”

I shook my head, said,

“Nobody talks sense anymore.”

I moved to the door, fed up with them all. The bar guy called,

“Hey, Jack, who is on the green pound note?”

I went to see the nun, Sister Maeve. It was she who introduced me to Marion and set me on the course of what seemed to be happiness.

The road to hell is paved with well-intentioned nuns.

Our friendship was odd, to say the least. She had asked for help on a Church mini crisis and, though I did sweet fuck-all, it got resolved and put me in good, if false, light.

You take the kudos when they fall.

She seemed to genuinely have great fondness for me. If anyone could help me salvage my love affair it was Maeve.

I purchased all her treats:

Black Forest gâteau,

Strawberry cheesecake,

And

Herterich handmade sausages.

She lived in a small house on Saint Francis Street, but a rosary from the Abbey Church.

Before, when I called on her, she would seem delighted.

This time?

Not so much.

She said,

“Oh, it’s you.”

Mmm.

I asked because I had to.

“May I come in?”

Grudgingly,

“Um, okay.”

I handed over the gifts as she didn’t ask me to sit.

Usually, she’d be all over those treats like delight in action but now left coldly on the table.

I asked,

“Is everything all right?”

I’m a PI, sensitive to these nuances.

Mainly I’m an asshole.

She was avoiding my eyes. I placed myself right in front of her face, put my hand on her shoulder, asked,

“What is it, Sister?”

Not using her Christian name seemed to snap her out of it, she gulped.

“Jack, I’m so sorry.”

I was all concern, soothed.

“It’s okay, really. Is it about Joffrey? I won’t bring him to a pub again, okay?”

She did something she never had done. She got a bottle of whiskey, a brand not seen since the flood, Robin Redbreast, poured two healthy dollops into glasses with a blue sheen and the logo

OUR LADY OF GUADALUPE.

I doubt she knew this was the Madonna of the cartels. I didn’t share, raised my glass, said,

“ Dia leat ”(God be with you).

She made a face as she sipped her drink, said,

“Oh, my Lord.”

Not so much a prayer as a shock.

I could see her steel herself for whatever she had to tell, her knuckles white. She said,

“Marion is going back to Sean.”

Sean ? Who the fuck was Sean ?

My blank face prompted her to add,

“Her husband.”

Aw, fuck.

She asked,

“You didn’t know?”

Like hello, take a wild freaking guess.

We had an unspoken agreement to leave the past alone, to take it from when we met. Like did I think Joffrey was an immaculate conception?

I said,

“I didn’t know.”

She went to touch my arm but I shook her off, said,

“I have to go.”

Then I spotted a new item on her bureau. A gleaming white chess set. I asked,

“You play chess?”

She nearly smiled, said,

“Your friend brought it.”

I was nearly afraid to ask but did, echoed,

“My friend?”

“Yes, Mr. Allen, a lovely man but I’m not sure I entirely knew what he meant.”

“How do you mean?”

He said,

“Tell Jack he’s touchable.”

I had a Montblanc pen that I’d nicked from a lawyer. I bought a Moleskine diary from Mary in Hollands. She was, as always, just lovely in every way, said,

“’Tis great to see you, Jack.”

I refused to allow that to lift my mood. Went to Richardson’s pub at the very top of Eyre Square. It had been there for as long as I could remember but few people I knew were likely to be there. I got a boilermaker, a table at the rear, set out my fucked life.

Like this:

Marion was very likely a done deal.

The Fisher King, this Silence guy, who kept intruding in my life.

Tevis, what was the bloody gig with this dude?

Pierre Renaud, who’d had his sons murdered.

And what...

What the hell was I to do with this mess?

If I visualized a chessboard, it was thus basically a four-move gig.

A guy came over to my table, despite the whole vibe of fuck off I was emanating. Well dressed, tanned, expensive haircut, about my age but oh, oh so much better preserved.

He had a shot glass of something strong, sat, asked,

“Remember me, Jack?”

“No.”

He nodded as if expecting nothing more, said,

“Jimmy Dolan. I sat beside you at school.”

I gave him the look that is but a twitch away from a glare, asked,

“And?”

Flustered him as intended. He tried,

“Just, you know, I thought I’d say hello.”

Looking like he now knew it was a very bad notion so I eased a bit, asked,

“How have you been, Jimmy Dolan?”

In Irish terms, you use a person’s full name thus, it is as close to a slap in the mouth as it gets.

A slight smile, then,

“I’m in tires.”

Did that require an answer that bore any relation to civility?

I nodded sagely as if I’d read Booker-nominated titles. He said,

“It’s not like I woke up one morning and thought, Whoa, I just gotta get into tires.”

I felt a question was probably required about here, so,

“There’s money in tires, is there?”

He stared for a moment, wondering if there was mockery. Then,

“Let me say, I’ve a nice home, place in the country, Barbados twice yearly.”

Here, he shot his cuff to reveal a shiny Rolex, the new very slim one that, really, you’d be mortified to own let alone wear.

Continued:

“Two boys in the very best schools.”

I wanted to shout,

“I know a guy with two boys in the river.”

Instead, I went,

“The Irish new success story.”

He stood up, went and got a round of drinks, came back, handed me a glass, asked,

“Jameson, right?”

His was a double, mine the lone shot, gulped his, swallowed with a grimace like in the movies, said,

“You’d think I’d be happy.”

I actually thought almost nothing save so what?

I said,

“I should think so.”

He scoffed, near spat,

“Like fuck.”

I said,

“Fried liver.”

He went,

“What?”

“It’s a chess tactic, like the four-move checkmate, and it is a lethal one. The name comes from dead as fried liver .”

He said,

“I don’t play fucking chess.”

I stood up, finished my drink, said,

“And you wonder why you’re not happy.”

May 22, in Manchester at a concert for youngsters and teenagers, a suicide bomber killed twenty-two and seriously injured fifty-nine others.

There was a stunned horrific silence

’Round the world.

The next evening, Man United were playing against Ajax for the only trophy they had never won.

The heavens cut Manicheans some slack and they won by two goals.